Psychonaut
by PsychGirl
Summary: Can sense of time be considered a sense? What would happen if it went haywire? Can you dream or remember things that haven't happened yet? Can you have a missing scene for a story that doesn't exist? And can you change tenses midstory? All is answered


**Disclaimer**: you know the song...not mine, no money, please don't sue...etc.

Written for Sentinel Thursday on LiveJournal - challenge #188: Time

This is a missing scene to a story I haven't written yet; the as-yet-unnamed sequel to "The Devil You Know", which can be found at 852 Prospect if you want to read it. But I think the story will still make sense even if you haven't.

**Warnings**: Slash (J/B), established relationship

Mild spoilers for Switchman, Rogue, and Sentinel Too part one. Some of these words (you can probably guess which ones) were not written by me, but by Paul DeMeo, Danny Bilson, Howard Chaykin, and Gail Morgan Hickman.

* * *

Jim pushed the door to the loft open and trudged inside, Blair behind him. He shrugged his coat off slowly, hung it up; unhooked his shoulder holster and pulled it off, wearily. 

He felt Blair's hand on his shoulder, warm and comforting. "Hey, man, you okay?"

He sighed, rubbing at his temples. "Yeah. Just got a hell of a headache."

Blair squeezed his shoulder gently. "Well, no wonder. When McNamara hit that jug of formaldehyde and it sprayed all over the room, I was amazed you didn't pass out."

"Nearly did, Chief. Took all I had just to stay upright."

Both of Blair's hands were on him now, massaging his neck and shoulder muscles gently. "Can I help? You want a backrub? First dibs on the shower?"

But that just reminded him that, while he had been incapacitated by the formaldehyde, it had been Blair that had opened the refrigerator door, Blair that had found the dismembered body parts of seven victims, some half-eaten. And it had been Blair that had stumbled to the cellar door, puking what was left of his lunch all over the alleyway. But Jim couldn't blame him. The contents of that refrigerator had been enough to turn even the most seasoned officer green.

He reached up and patted Blair's hands. "No, it's okay. You can have the shower first."

He heard Blair sigh as he let go of his shoulders. "Thanks, man. I seriously appreciate it; you have no idea how much."

"Just save me a little hot water, okay, Cousteau? I swear, sometimes I think you're half fish."

He heard Blair chuckle as he headed up the stairs to their bedroom. Jim went into the kitchen, intending to get a bottle of water, but felt a twist of nausea in his gut as he reached for the refrigerator door. Okay, maybe not something cold…not quite yet. "Hey, Chief?" he called out.

"Yeah?"

"Do you have any of that tea that you made for me the last time I had a headache? The green stuff?"

Blair jogged down the stairs, his robe wrapped around him. "Yeah. It's in a tin at the back of the cabinet, behind the spices, I think." He came into the kitchen, but Jim shooed him away firmly.

"I'll find it, I'll find it. Go take your shower." Blair put his hands up in surrender, turning and heading for the bathroom. "You said it's in a tin?"

"Yeah, like, this big," and Jim looked over to see Blair making a shape with his hands about the size of a large orange.

"All right," he said absently, moving bottles and boxes around in the cabinet. He heard Blair go into the bathroom, heard the door close, heard the shower start a few minutes later. "Ah hah! There you are, you little bugger," he muttered, digging a small metal tin out of the very back of the space.

The tin was dark, covered with a floral motif of vines and tiny pink flowers. On the label taped to the side Blair had written "mugwort" in a neat hand, and Jim sighed with a mixture of irritation and admiration. _I don't know why he can't just put something simple on there, like 'headache tea'_, he thought, but he knew full well that that suggestion would get him an hour-long lecture on all the different kinds of teas and the wide variety of conditions, symptoms, and ailments they could be used to treat.

He worked the top off carefully and took a sniff, then wrinkled his nose in disgust and turned his head away. It didn't smell this bad when he made it for me last time, he thought, and almost put the tea away, then reconsidered. It really had helped last time—maybe it smelled better once it was brewed.

He filled the kettle and set it on the stove, turning the burner on. He rinsed out the teapot and added a few teaspoonfuls of the mixture in the tin, trying hard not to breathe through his nose as he did. When the water was boiling, he added it to the pot; he let it steep for a while, then poured himself a cup, adding a little honey.

The brewed tea did smell a lot better, kind of a musty, organic, hay-like smell. It had a slightly bitter taste, but the honey did a lot to mask it. He blew on it to cool it, then drank it down quickly, wanting relief from the pounding in his temples. He put the cup on the coffee table, then kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the couch. He'd just close his eyes for a moment, rest a little bit, give the tea some time to work, before going upstairs and getting undressed. He could hear the susurrus of the shower, Blair humming softly under his breath, and he focused on that, the sound of Blair's voice soothing him, washing over him…

_flash_

He sits down on the hastily-cleared chair warily, unsure of what's going on. Is this some kind of scam? Probably. The kid's probably going to ask him to pay in advance for some kind of weird alternative treatment, promise him a money-back guarantee, and when it doesn't work and he comes back looking for his money the kid'll be gone, vamoose…now he's saying something about the Holy Grail; oh, damn, he's probably part of some kind of religious cult or something…

But there's something about him, something he noticed even at the hospital, notices even now. Something that makes him want to trust the kid, listen to him…

_Wait a goddamned minute!_ he thinks, jumping to his feet. _Did he just call me a caveman_?

"Listen, you neo-hippie, witch doctor punk…"

_flash_

He crashes through the exit door, hot on Blair's heels, out onto the hospital grounds. He can hear Blair's heart thudding in panic, and all he wants to do is get him and get the hell out of this place. Once they're somewhere safe, he can try to explain. As if, he thinks. As if you understand what's going on.

Suddenly Blair skids to a stop in front of him. He stops, looks up and sees Alex, and without even thinking about it his hand goes to the holster at his back. Within seconds he has her in his sights.

"Well, well, well," Alex says to him, a feral smile on her face, "I guess you caught me."

Blair turns and looks at him. He's torn; he doesn't want to let his guard down around Alex, but the hopeless, lost look in Blair's eyes is too much for him. "That's what I was trying to tell you before," he says to Blair, willing Blair to believe him, to trust him. "They've been trying to confuse you, brainwash you. Whatever you've been told, it's not true. She's behind it all."

"But…but you said you didn't know me."

He curses to himself. It's exactly what he feared, that she came to Blair wearing his face, telling him lies. He meets Blair's confused gaze, all caution about Alex gone in the need to reassure his partner. "That wasn't me, Chief."

He catches a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. Alex is holding a gun now, aimed directly at Blair. "Drop it, Ellison," she snarls. "You can't shoot me before I shoot him."

He leans forward slowly, drops his gun on the ground, kicks it towards her. "Well, this certainly screws up my nice little plan," she says. "Guess I'll have to improvise. But no reason I can't have a little fun before I go." She raises the gun, aims it at Blair. "Here's an image you can take to your grave."

And before his eyes, she's changing, her body thickening, her features moving like wax, until it's his mirror image that stands before him. He can hear the scrape of the trigger as it's pulled back, and he launches himself towards Blair…

_flash_

They're not going to get anything from her, he realizes; she's too cool, too collected. She's played this game before.

He takes another look around the apartment but there's nothing incriminating to be found. He knows she's the thief, but right now he can't prove it, not even with Sentinel senses. "All right, Chief, we got what we need," he says. Let her worry, let her squirm.

Blair leaves, and as he's following him out he stops and looks her directly in the eyes. "I know exactly what you are, lady."

"And I know what you are, too. Welcome to the jungle."

_flash_

Blair sprawls on the bed, naked, tugging at his hand. "C'mon, man, what are you waiting for?" he says, his voice low and husky.

He just wants to look; it's been so long since he's seen his lover. Blair is deeply tanned, thin, lithe and wiry, and a part of his mind wonders anxiously where he's been, what he's been doing, but then Blair's teeth are worrying at his bottom lip, and he has to bend forward, has to capture that mouth with his own, has to lick and soothe the tiny indentations away, darker rose against the pale of Blair's lips.

_flash_

He pours the Scotch carefully, not wanting to waste any. He's going to need every drop if he's going to be able to forget long enough to sleep. After that, he doesn't really care what happens.

The liquor burns as it slides down his throat, searing muscles and nerves already flayed to the quick. But it disappears as it hits his stomach, disappears into the aching hole there. _Blair_, he thinks, and just thinking his name is enough to obliterate any peace of mind the alcohol had given him.

He hears a rustle; Alex is standing in the doorway. "I can be him, you know," she says, her voice low. "If you wanted one last chance…if you wanted to say goodbye. I could do that…I would do that. If you wanted me to."

His hand tightens on the bottle, because he doesn't know if he has the strength to say no.

_flash_

He points at the lamp on the table behind him, praying Blair will notice, praying that Brackett won't. "Get to the point, Brackett," he says, not really having to fake the irritation in his voice.

"Well, the point is you two are going to help me steal something."

"Wait a minute, both of us?" Blair chimes in.

"Well, you're his guide, so to speak, so I'll need you, too."

_flash_

The young woman at his side leans towards him. He's struck, as always, by how much she looks like Blair…her long, dark, curly hair is pulled up in a neat bun, but she's got Blair's cobalt-blue eyes, his full, generous mouth. She smiles at him.

"Dad, you ready for this?" she asks, under her breath.

He nods, and she turns and faces forward. "All right, Senator, we're ready for your questions."

_flash_

"Jim? Jim, are you okay? Talk to me, man, say something!"

He opened his eyes to see Blair's face floating above his, pale, eyes wide with concern. Damp tendrils of Blair's hair tickled his cheeks. "I'm fine," he said, "just taking a little nap." He sat up, took a deep breath, rotated his shoulders. His headache was gone; he felt good. Really good.

Blair picked up the cup from the coffee table, sniffed it. He shot a glare at Jim, got up, and went into the kitchen, picking up the tin of tea. Shock crossed his features. "Did you drink this?" he demanded, a thread of panic in his voice.

"Yeah, so what? It was the stuff you made for me last time," he said, turning to face Blair.

"No," Blair said furiously, his back to Jim, digging in the cabinet, "_this_ is the stuff I made for you last time." He held up a small tin, identical to the first; the label on the side read "headache tea".

Jim shrugged. "Well, it worked. My headache's gone. And I feel fine. Why are you so worked up about it?"

Blair exhaled heavily, ran a hand through his hair. He came and sat down next to Jim on the couch, the tin that Jim had used in his hand. "This is mugwort. It's a mild hallucinogen, something I use in shamanic work. But there's no telling what effect it could have on you, on your senses." He looked up at Jim, his eyes dark. "I couldn't wake you at first. I shook you, called your name, but you didn't respond."

Jim slid an arm around Blair's shoulders, pulled him close, kissed him gently. "I'm okay, babe, I'm fine. Feel great, actually." He took the tin from Blair's hand and turned it around, looking at it. "What kind of effects does it usually have?"

"It increases the potential for prophetic dreams, dreams about the future. It gives the shaman more ability to function lucidly within the dream, use it as a way of gaining information." He shot a sharp glance at Jim. "You didn't dream?"

"Not that I remember."

"And your senses are okay? Nothing weird or wonky?"

Jim pursed his lips, shook his head. "Nope, they're fine." He smiled at Blair. "See? Nothing to worry about. And it did cure my headache." Blair's look of concern didn't fade, however, and Jim sighed. "Okay, I promise, next time I'll make sure I find the headache tea." He patted Blair's shoulder. "I'm gonna go take a shower, babe."

"Okay."

He went upstairs, stripping his clothes off and putting his robe on. He could hear Blair puttering around in the kitchen, putting the tins of tea away. As he came down the stairs, he paused; for a moment, he thought he saw Blair, standing in the kitchen, cradling an infant in his arms. He blinked and shook his head sharply. It must have been a trick of the light, because now he could clearly see that Blair had just been drying the teapot.


End file.
